– What did he lie about?
She crosses the kitchen to him.
– Nothing, nothing, mi amor.
She puts a hand on his arm and tries to guide him to the table.
– Sit, I have your breakfast, sit.
He shrugs her off.
– I can walk. Leave me, I can walk to the table.
She smiles and nods and backs away toward the stove.
– Amor.
She starts filling a plate with beans and tortillas and a few links of Brown ’N Serve.
– Hector, take this to your father.
Hector takes the plate and a fork and a paper napkin and sets them on the table.
– You been lying to your mama?
– No, Pop.
– Bring me some water.
Hector fills a glass of water from the tap and takes it to the table. His mother keeps her back to them, tending the pots on the stove.
– Here, Pop.
His father takes the pills from his robe pocket and hands the bottle to his son.
– Two.
Hector opens the cap and takes out the pills and hands them over and watches as his dad washes them down with the water.
He puts the glass aside and cuts one of the sausages with his fork and pushes a piece of it around in his beans.
– What did you lie to your mama about?
– Nothing, Pop.
He puts the sausage and beans in his mouth.
– And now you’re lying to me?
– No.
– Yes. Yes, you are.
He swallows the food.
– Go on. You came here to get some food, to change your clothes, to do that thing to your hair. Go on. Do the things you came here for. But don’t come to my house and lie to my wife. You come home when you want to, I am not an animal, my son has a home, I don’t kick my son out no matter what he does. But don’t come home to break your mother’s heart. Go on, go take care of your things. Just get out of the kitchen before you tell another lie.
– Pop.
– Go on, get out.
Hector puts a hand on his mother’s shoulder.
– Ma, I didn’t.
She shakes her head, brushes her hand in the air, doesn’t look at him.
– Go on now, Hector, like your father says. Go on, it will be better right now.
– But.
His father bangs his cane on the floor.
– You heard your mama, go on. Go be with your friends and listen to your music. Go tell lies in their homes.
Hector squeezes his mom’s shoulder.
– I’m sorry, Ma.
She smiles, but doesn’t say anything.
His father points at a cabinet.
– Where’s my wine?
Hector leaves the kitchen.
– Look at the bad penny.
– Hey, Amy.
– Don’t let the cat out! Don’t let the damn cat out!
Jeff sticks his leg in front of the cat, blocking its path, and snags it by the scruff.
– Got ’im.
He dangles the cat.
She puts her Marlboro 100 in her mouth and holds out her arms.
– Easy, easy, he’s a old cat.
She takes the cat and rubs her ear against its neck.
– Aren’t you? Just a little old man, aren’t you?
She turns and walks back into the house.
– You comin’ in?
– Yeah, sure.
Jeff follows her, watching her ass under the tight white jeans.
She climbs inside the bell of a wicker chair that dangles from the ceiling by a heavy chain, crossing her legs and putting the cat in her lap.
– What’s up, what you looking for?
He settles on a Spirit of ’76 souvenir beanbag from the bicentennial, the white patches turned gray by the years.
– They got me doin’ splits again.
– Shit.
– Yeah. Graveyards, I can take a couple ludes the first few mornings, get used to sleeping during the day. This half and half shit, don’t know when I’m up and when I’m down.
– Need help with the ups, huh?
– Supervisor drove by this parking lot, a parking lot I’m fucking protecting, I was crashed out. Finds me asleep again, says he’s gonna suspend me. At least. Like I care if I lose the job.
– Uh huh. Want to get high?
– Yeah.
Amy points at an ashtray on the floor.
– There’s a roach in there.
– Got a clip?
She bends forward, sticking her head out of the wicker cocoon, the chair tilting beneath her.
– Here.
She turns her head to the side and Jeff removes the feathered clip from her ponytail, opens the alligator jaws and places the roach between them.
He lights up, takes a hit and offers it to her.
– You in?
She waves the joint away.
– Go ahead, I already did a wake and bake. Got to be at the hospital in a hour. Doubling up my shift. Get too wasted and I’ll be taking naps on the gurneys.
– I hear that.
She watches Jeff blow the roach.
Cute guy. He’d been a serious maybe at one time. Back in high school he’d been a definite yes. But she’d been Bob’s little sister, fucker hadn’t even noticed her. Not till her tits popped, then he noticed all right. By then she knew what she had, didn’t need to be screwing her big brother’s biker buds. But he’d stayed on the maybe list for a long time. If he’d tried a little harder he’d probably have got in. Made out that one time when they got drunk together on wine cooler. But some of the skanks he’s walked out of the Rodeo Club with? Who wants to be on that list?
Still, he did give a good back rub. And he’s a great kisser. And when she passed out he didn’t even try to fingerbang her or anything.
So he’s not on the serious maybe list, but he’s not on the no fucking way list either.
She adjusts a bra strap, moves the cat so he hides the tummy she started getting in the last two years.
– Whites OK?
She pulls a baggie from under the chair’s seat cushion.
Jeff sucks the roach dead.
– If that’s what you got. What I could really go for is some crank.
– Don’t got it.
– Not a little? Just a quarter for an old friend?
She leans back, deep inside the chair, her face disappearing in the shadows.
– I don’t fuck with that shit. You know that.
– It’s cool. I’m sorry. Just asking. No biggie.
– Why would you even ask that shit?
– No reason, just thought you might have changed the menu.
– Why? Where’d that idea come from? You ever hear me say anything about crank other than it’s a shitty high? I don’t deal in shitty highs. I’m a specialist, man. Pharmaceuticals. A little acid maybe. None of that cheap bathtub, do it yourself nose Drano.
– Got it, got it. I was out of line asking. Just.
– What?
– Nothing.
– Bullshit. Nothing. My ass. What?
Jeff opens and closes the roach clip, runs his fingers over the fluffy white and black feathers that hang from it on a suede cord.
– It’s nothing. No big deal. Just something I heard.
She leans forward, the cat jumps from her lap and scoots under the couch.
– You heard what?
Jeff stands, gets a Camel from his pocket.
– Those whites handy?
Amy unfolds her legs, sticks them out of the chair, looks up at him through dirty blonde bangs, the same shade as her nephews’. She holds out a hand.
– Jeff, come here, baby.
He steps closer, offers her the roach clip.
She takes the clip from him, drops it on the floor and holds his hand.
– Baby, how long we know each other?
He fiddles with his unlit cigarette.
She runs her thumb across the back of his hand, massages an old white scar that covers an entire knuckle.
– Since we were kids. When did you and my brother first start hanging out? What were you, like, thirteen? I would have been nine. That’s, what, over twenty years, man? That’s crazy. You ever think you’d know anybody more than twenty years?
Jeff puts the cigarette away and takes her hand between both of his.
– Baby, I never thought I’d be twenty. Trips me out all the time.
She swings a foot back and forth, the basket chair rocks slightly.
– Being over thirty just blows my mind. And the way things change. Like the shit Bob was into when I was, like, the good little sister. And now look at him, and look at me. A trip. And like you and Bob were best friends and I was just his kid sister and now you guys don’t ever see each other and me and you have been friends for a long time. Weird how that shit happens.
Jeff pulls lightly on her hand, adding to the chair’s motion, rocking her.
– I like that part, baby. A lot of it, getting older, most of it is a drag, but I like being closer with you.
She holds his hands tightly, pulls, drawing herself closer to him.
– Well, I tell ya what, baby, you want us to be close, you want to ever have a chance of getting closer, you ever want to score another pill off me ever, you need to tell me where you got the fucking idea I might be holding crank.
She frees her hand from his and swings away, dropping her feet to the floor, halting the chair.
– Now, Jeff.
He looks at the floor, shakes his head, takes out the cigarette and lights it.
– Nice, Amy, nice way to be with a friend.
– Right now, you’re barely a customer. You want to be my friend again, do something to show me that you are.
Jeff nudges the beanbag with his boot.
– Fucking.
– Jeff.
– Yeah, I heard you. Just, look, don’t make a big deal out of this.
– Jeff.
He kicks the beanbag.
– Geezer. OK? Geezer said something about you and that he thought you were maybe dealing a little crank.
She points a chipped red fingernail at him.
– You fucker.
– Hey!
– You weren’t gonna tell me. You knew that, and you weren’t gonna warn me.
– That’s not.
– You came in here. Um, shucks, got any crank? Wait a minute…
– Whoa, Amy.
– You. Are you here for him? Did he send you over here too?
– No. No way. No fucking way. You know me better than that.
– Do I?
She stands, the top of her head at his chin, a finger in his face.
– OK. OK. You tell, him, that fat fucking slob, you tell him no fucking way. I am not dealing crank. No. You tell him, tell him to stay away from me. Tell him, he comes around here, he comes, I see him on my lawn, tell him I’m calling every old man I ever had. Tell him I’m gonna have every biker in the Tri Valley on his ass. Tell him to stay away. Tell him to leave me alone, just leave me alone.
Jeff tries to touch her face, to wipe away some of the tears pouring over her cheeks.
She jerks away, stomps her foot, exhales and drops back into her chair. Head hanging, arms and legs limp.
– Geezer.
She pulls her legs up into the chair and wraps her arms around them.
– Oh fuck. Ohfuckohfuckohfuck.
– Let me borrow a shirt.
George looks down into the drawer of carefully folded concert Ts. He’s standing in his underwear, his arms held away from his sides so he won’t start sweating again.
– Why?
Paul pulls off his own shirt.
– Got bean dip all over mine.
George takes out a Stones shirt from their “Face Dances” gig at the Cow Palace.
– So go home and get one.
Paul lies back down on the sleeping bag spread on the floor.
– Fucking never mind.
George puts on the Stones T.
– Dude, don’t be a girl, borrowing my clothes all the time. Go get a clean shirt.
– Don’t be a rag, fucking lend me one.
George closes the drawer.
– No way, you get bean dip on your own shirts, not on mine.
– Yeah, now who’s the girl?
He gets up and goes to the dresser and opens the drawer.
– Look at this, man, you wash these things in Woolite or what?
– Fuck you.
– They’re just shirts, man. You wear them, that’s what they’re for.
– It’s a collection, OK? It’s a collection of shirts from concerts I’ve gone to and paid money for the shirts and taken good care of them because I want to keep them around and wear them. You five finger discount every concert shirt you ever had. No wonder you don’t give a fuck if they get thrashed.
Paul takes a step back.
– Whoa. Sorry. Didn’t realize I was talking to your dad here.
George pulls on his favorite cutoffs.
– Fuck you, man.
He grabs his smokes and lighter and shades and walks out.
– Do whatever you want, take whatever you want.
Paul stands alone in the room.
Fucking George. No joke, the guy can get like infected with his dad sometimes. Not that that should be a big deal. They all make jokes about how uptight Mr. Whelan is, but he’s far and away the coolest dad any of them know. George doesn’t know how good he has it, how easy.
He looks at the shirts, picks up the one from the Blue Oyster Cult show last December. He unfolds the shirt and looks at the front, the ankh and the reaper in a night sky, the tour dates listed down the back.
George loves his shirts, doesn’t mean he has to be a dick about it. Knows how much it sucks to go home after staying out all night.
You OK? Everything all right? I wish you would call if you’re going to stay out all night. Something is going to happen one night and I won’t even know to be worried or to look for you. All you have to do is pick up the phone and call. Even if you need a ride. Especially if you need a ride. Don’t ever get in a car with a drunk driver. If you’ve been drinking that’s one thing, but don’t get in a car with someone who’s been drinking themselves.
George can’t lend him one cocksucking shirt so he doesn’t have to deal with that? They been friends how long? Jesus. Just ever since The Fight, that’s all.
It happened a couple days after Paul and his family moved into the neighborhood. George was the local hero, eight years old, wearing jeans and boots and a pearl button shirt like his dad. What a fag he looked like. And coming on all cowboy tough, giving Paul shit about the hippie stuff his mom found for him at the Salvation Army store.
They fought for so long the kids watching started to cry. They were so scared one of them was gonna kill the other one. They beat the living shit out of each other. Went on for hours. Seemed that way. Anyway, didn’t stop till Mr. Whelan drove home and saw them punching each other on the Phelps’ front lawn. Pulled to the curb and came over and got a handful of their hair in each hand and yanked them apart.
That was a great fucking fight, man.
Next day they ran into each other on the sidewalk and talked about it and showed each other their bruises and scrapes and scabby knuckles.
He crams the shirt back in the drawer. Fuck this, man. Got cash on hand. Go down to Galaxy Records and buy a brand new shirt. Get that black Ozzy T with the red jersey sleeves. Yeah, man, cut the sleeves off, that’ll look cool as hell.
He climbs into his shredded jeans and the dirty T and pulls on Jeff’s Harley cap.
– George!
He heads down the stairs to the kitchen.
– George, let’s cruise over to Galaxy, check out some tunes, there’s a shirt I like on the wall over there.
Andy walks arou
nd the empty house.
It’s after twelve. The thermometer on the back porch is hitting ninety. Mom and dad left for work first thing. Who knows when George and Paul and Hector took off.
He goes to the bathroom and brushes his teeth and fills a plastic cup with water from the tap and drinks it standing at the sink. He looks at himself in the mirror. Skin and bones and greasy, tangled hair. Mostly bones and hair. No wonder no girls like him.
Paul says he’d do better if he was bigger. Chicks dig muscles, he says, and flexes. Chicks like Paul OK, dig his muscles, until they get to know him. Then they get scared of his temper.
Hector says Andy needs to be himself. Chicks don’t dig him when he’s being himself, then fuck them anyway, he says. Chicks used to be into Hector, until he went punk and started wearing the mohawk last year. There are a couple that are still into him, funky ones with tons of black eye shadow and black nail polish and shit.
George says he just needs to be cool, not dig the chicks too much. Just do your own thing and they’ll come around. And it works for him. Like most things work for George. He’s the one chicks come around to talk to, trailing a couple friends. Paul and Hector get the friends. Andy gets told to go home.
That’s what it’s like being the little brother.
He’s made out twice in his life so far. Both times with girls that were older than him. Both times at parties where everyone was drunk and stoned. Both times they found out he was at least a year younger and ignored him after and told their friends it didn’t happen.
He picks up a brush and tries to run it through his hair, but it snags and pulls at his scalp. He gives up and leaves it in a tangle.
In the kitchen he finds some of last night’s fruit salad and sits at the table in his underwear. He studies the bowl and estimates how much more fruit is in it than was in his bowl last night. He remembers the total numbers of each type of fruit he had in his bowl because he counted them all and he multiplies that number based on his estimate and calculates the odds of selecting any particular type of fruit if he were to do it blindfolded.
He remembers catching his dad watching him pick through the fruit. Remembers the look on his dad’s face. He gets that look a lot, the where did this weird kid come from look.
It’s not like he’s trying to be different, like he wants to be weird. He just is. Not like it’s easy being this way. He’d rather be like George. He’d rather be like his dad. He’d rather be like anyone else. But he’s not. Because no one else is like him. No one else is this weird. And that’s just the weird stuff people know about. They don’t know about the stuff inside his head.
The Shotgun Rule Page 12